‎‎The manor had stopped groaning like it was dying and started whispering instead, a low, constant murmur that vibrated through the stone under our boots and into our teeth, the sound of something vast and broken trying to speak one last time before it gave up entirely, and the air that drifted down tasted different now thinner, colder, laced with the faint metallic bite of exposed wiring and the sour sweet rot of mana cores that had finally gone dark, leaving only the throne hall’s stubborn glow high above like a single eye refusing to close.‎‎I woke to that whisper.‎‎Not the usual jolt from pain or dreams of falling.‎‎Just the sound.‎‎Deep.‎‎Persistent.‎‎Like the house was calling my name.‎‎Liora was already awake beside me, sitting with her knees drawn up, sword across her lap, eyes fixed on the cavern mouth where the gray light leaked in thin and weak. Her braid had come completely undone sometime in the night, silver strands loose across her shoulders, catching the

The cavern felt smaller tonight, the walls leaning in closer than usual, the fire down to a thin red line that barely pushed back the dark, throwing faint, trembling light across the mats and the scattered gear, the air thick with the smell of cold stone, lingering smoke, and the faint herbal bitterness from the poultice Liora still rubbed into my side every few hours, the scent clinging to her fingers and to my skin like a promise she wasn’t ready to let go of yet. I lay on my back, staring at the rough ceiling, the ache in my ribs a steady, low throb that had become part of breathing now, not sharp anymore, just there, like a heartbeat I couldn’t turn off, and the manor above groaned again deeper this time, slower, the sound rolling through the stone like a sigh that wouldn’t end, reminding me how little time we had left before the whole thing came down or we went up to finish it. Liora was beside me. Close. Closer than she needed to be. Her head rested on my shoulder, silver h

The manor no longer fought its own descent; it had surrendered to gravity in slow, exhausted increments, the lowest spires now dragging long, scraping furrows across the upper platforms whenever the wind shifted, each metallic screech echoing through the mountain like a dying breath that refused to finish, and the air that swept down carried a changed scent less of burning, more of cooling iron and the faint, damp rot of mana conduits that had finally gone cold, leaving only the throne hall’s solitary glow high above, a pale, flickering gold that looked less like defiance and more like a lantern left burning in an empty house. I stood on the forward ledge in the gray half light before true dawn, cloak wrapped tight against the bite, the stitches in my side pulling with every breath but no longer sharp enough to make me wince, just a steady, nagging reminder that my body still remembered what blades could do. The wind tugged at the edges of my hood, cold fingers slipping beneath to tr

The manor had finally stopped pretending it could hold on. It drifted downward in exhausted, uneven lurches now, each drop accompanied by a deep, metallic groan that rolled through the mountain like thunder trapped in stone, the lowest spires no longer scraping but gouging long, jagged scars across the upper platforms, sparks flying in brief, angry bursts that lit the gray dawn like dying fireflies. The air carried the heavy, acrid scent of molten gold cooling too fast, mixed with the faint, wet rot of mana conduits that had given up entirely, leaving only the throne hall’s solitary glow high above a pale, flickering gold that looked less like defiance and more like a lantern someone had forgotten to extinguish before abandoning the house.I stood at the forward ledge in the thin, cold light of pre dawn, cloak pulled tight against the wind that bit harder now, carrying flecks of ash and the sharp tang of exposed wiring that stung my nose and made my eyes water. The ache in my side ha

The throne hall doors loomed ahead like the jaws of a dying beast, gold plating cracked and blackened from failing wards, the faint hum of dying mana vibrating through the stone floor and into my boots, each step sending small tremors up my legs that made the stitches in my side tug with fresh, dull pain. The air in the antechamber was thick, hot, heavy with the stink of scorched metal, old blood, and the sour rot of mana cores that had finally given up the ghost, the smell clinging to my tongue and making every breath feel like swallowing ash and regret. The last loyalists had pulled back deeper inside only a handful remained here, crimson plate gleaming dully under flickering torchlight, flame auras low but steady, eyes hard with the kind of fanaticism that doesn’t flinch at death because it’s already decided the cause is worth it. We burst through the side corridor in a tight wedge me at point, Reaper drawn and low, crimson mist already coiling around the blade like living smoke;